


Easy On The Eye (Singular)

by meaninglessblah



Series: DC Kinkmeme Fills [4]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Community: dckinkmeme, Daddy Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Roy spots a familiar face at a rundown bar in Kentucky, and decides to fill his bad idea quota.
Relationships: Roy Harper/Slade Wilson
Series: DC Kinkmeme Fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906351
Comments: 14
Kudos: 42





	Easy On The Eye (Singular)

**Author's Note:**

> **This is a fill for the[DC Kinkmeme](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org).**
> 
> **Prompt:** Roy has a habit of sleeping with the wrong people, but Deathstroke really takes the cake. Looking for something consensual but like, a REALLY bad idea. Bonus points for referencing their shared history with Cheshire, or the fact that Slade doesn't NOT resemble an older Oliver Queen (although I would prefer that as an unexplored daddy issues thing on Roy's part and not an indication of actual Ollie/Roy).

For the first time in a long time, Roy’s alone. 

Jason’s run back to Bruce, for the pure and simple reason that he called. And Roy’s a good enough friend not to mention how Jason had been checking his cell incessantly for any whisper of activity on his Gotham family since they took this payload. 

Kory’s off on some intergalactic diplomacy mission that Roy doesn’t have enough sober brain cells to make sense of right now. It had involved lots of shaking hands and kissing zarnics, from what he could tell. 

Either way, the end result was the same. So Roy was nursing a whiskey in a rundown bar in Kentucky, humming tunelessly to a never-ending loop of Loretta Lynn. 

It wasn’t really his scene. Roy can count on one hand the number of bars and nightclubs he _hasn’t_ been to in Gotham; even the high end ones on the East Side had made for good stakeouts. Plus, good drugs follow good money. 

That wasn’t Roy’s scene anymore either, which was why he chose a bar with the sort of decor that belonged in a roadhouse off Route 66. The kind where everyone kept their eyes down and their hands to themselves, and Roy didn’t have to worry about raising old ghosts from the track marks on his arms. 

Which is why, when the bartender slides a short glass of amber bourbon across the counter to him, Roy takes it with an arched brow. The man jerks his chin towards the back of the bar, where it’s an honest toss up as to whether the lightbulbs are even on. “From your friend with the money.” 

Roy palms the cool glass and inspects the liquid. Top shelf, from the peaty notes that hit the back of his throat when he inhales. “I don’t have any friends here,” Roy answers, but the bartender doesn’t seem particularly invested in the contradiction. 

“Apparently you do.” 

So Roy sips it down and hums, swivelling in his seat to survey the crowd tucked into the booths and milling around a threadbare snooker table. 

Nearly snorts the liquid back up when he spots the tall figure in the back corner offering him a languid, amused wave. It takes a spluttering, wheezing minute, but then Roy gets his faculties together enough to slip off his barstool and approach the man sitting undisturbed in the back corner, protected by the warning in that icy blue eye. 

“Long time no see,” Roy offers, halting a good few feet out of the man’s reach. The figure doesn’t give him any indication that he’s intending to start something, but Roy wants the headstart nonetheless. 

“One way to put it,” Slade Wilson responds, that low timbre thrumming in the air between them, curled around a smile. 

He’s surprisingly… open. Relaxed, Roy would call it, even though he feels anything but. 

He lifts the tumbler of whiskey and asks, “Is it poisoned?” 

Takes a sip anyway, because it’s good whiskey, and the bartender had said it was free. 

“That’d be a waste,” Slade answers, and Roy hums an agreement. 

“What are you doing in Kentucky?” 

“Working,” Slade replies coolly, and Roy tenses. Slade must notice the reaction, before he huffs a soft laugh. “Relax, kid, I’m off the clock.” 

He nods at the booth opposite, and after a moment’s hesitant and entirely ineffectual contemplation, Roy slides onto the dark leather. That ice blue eye follows him into his seat, lines of mirth crackling as he tips back his own glass of amber liquid. 

“Thanks for the drink,” Roy says to fill the silence, and applies one of his cockier grins. “But I’m not down for a one night stand, I’m afraid.” 

Slade surveys him for a moment, inscrutable, and for a moment, Roy worries that his joke has fallen flat. Then he says, casual as ever, “That’s a shame. I’ve got a place nearby.” 

It makes Roy pause, makes him second guess the glass warming in his palm. There’s still mirth on the older man’s features, but it doesn’t seem to be at Roy’s expense, and he’s fairly certain he hasn’t pissed the mercenary off recently. The implication that Slade’s returning his volley makes Roy’s pulse jump with what he sincerely hopes is trepidation. 

Roy laughs, high and thin even in his own ears. “You seriously think I’d agree to you taking me back to your place? Do you think I have a death wish, _Deathstroke_?” 

Slade watches him over the rim of his glass, holding his gaze as he swallows down bourbon and smacks his lips. “I wouldn’t need to lure you to a second location to kill you, kid. Could’ve done it right here.” 

Roy swallows in response, heat fissioning down his spine at the confidence in that tone. “Could you.” 

Slade hums an affirmation that makes Roy’s nerves sizzle. 

“Who’d have known, what with all the times you’ve taken a shot at me.” 

That gets him a twitch of a smile. “Guess you’re lucky no one’s paid me enough to warrant me taking up your contract.” 

“Maybe you’re just a poor shot.” 

Slade lowers the glass, and Roy’s pulse ratchets up into a whole new tempo at the low threat that sizzles between them. His mouth feels dry, but Slade doesn’t look off-put by his arrogance. Not yet, anyway. 

“Guess you’ll never know,” Slade says candidly, and Roy can’t help but feel like he’s on the back foot. 

He snorts to cover up his misstep, shifting to slouch into the booth further. Leans his elbows further up onto the table to maybe make his biceps flex, just a little bit. “Never know what?” 

“How good a shot I am. Or not. That’s assuming I’d ever take up your contract.” 

Roy licks his lips and sprawls back in his seat. Hitches his legs open a bit wider, for reasons he can’t exactly place when his head is swimming with the buzz of alcohol. “We could find out.” 

Mirth touches Slade’s eye. “Could we?” 

“Sure,” Roy replies, and nods towards the ‘entertainment’ section of the bar. “I’ll play you for the title.” 

He’s fairly certain Slade’s got him beat in nearly every form of combat. Roy _maybe_ doesn’t have him matched on draw speed, but he’s fairly confident they’re evenly matched when it comes to hitting a target, moving or otherwise. 

For whatever reason, Slade doesn’t call him on it, just turns the tumbler slowly on the table between them, glass scraping against the grain. They sit in silence for a few moments, summing each other up, before Slade offers, “Pretty sure you’re too young for snooker, kid.” 

“I was thinking darts, actually.” 

“I don’t play.” 

“Trouble with depth perception?” Roy asks with a touch of false sympathy. 

Slade’s gaze flashes with dark mirth, and then he’s laying a palm to the wood, sliding up to his feet to cross the width of the booth towards him. Roy tenses, flattening his shoulders to meet the oncoming threat, and keeps his chin high when he turns to meet Slade’s stare. 

The man just lowers his tumbler back to the table beside Roy’s, glass scraping the grain as he leers over him in a way that brings heat to the surface of his skin. Roy swallows, head tilting back to keep the man in view as he draws closer. 

“You’ve got a problem with that mouth of yours, kid.” 

“Have I?” Roy breathes. It lacks the joviality he’s aiming for, and Roy wonders just when he let himself be so overwhelmed by _Slade Wilson._

Slade’s smile quirks. “I can offer some suggestions for it, if you’ve got an evening.” 

“That sounds like a proposition,” Roy blurts out. 

“It does,” Slade answers evenly, and doesn’t straighten. Roy hates that he doesn’t pull away. That proximity toys with his pulse, yanking it up another few notches, and he can feel the heat pooling in his cheeks, coaxed up by that ice blue gaze. “So?” 

“So?” Roy prompts, mouth sluggish. 

One of those white brows arch. “So you’re in Kentucky and I’ve got a place. Do I need to spell it out for you, kid?” 

That single eye drags down Roy’s chest, and pointedly dips lower, drinking him down like he’s a glass of whiskey. Roy tries not to fidget, and does _not_ flinch when that eye snaps back up at his murmured, “Eyes on the prize, Slade. Well, _eye_ on the prize, I sup-” 

A thick, muscles leg nudges between his, digging into the leather, and Roy stutters on whatever he was going to say. Instead, what rises unbidden to his lips is, “ _Pushy._ ” 

“Someone really needs to teach you some manners, kid.” 

Truth be told, he’s always had a thing for thighs, and Slade definitely makes his top ten list. If excruciating to summon the willpower, but Roy lifts his gaze from that broad thigh back up to Slade’s eye. “Into discipline, are you?” 

Slade smirks. “For brats like you, I’ve got discipline in spades.” 

Roy swallows, and holds that gaze as best he can without blushing. “Gonna put me over your knee, are you?” 

“Thought that might be a little softcore for someone who’s dated a Tamaranean princess,” Slade quips smoothly, and Roy definitely does flush this time. There’s a knowing glint to Slade’s eye, and Roy wonders if the rumors about him and Dick are true. And if they are, how much Dick has told Slade about their shared interests. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.” 

“I don’t know,” Roy returns as coolly as he can muster. “How kinky do Deathstroke’s tastes get?” 

Slade laughs, low and deep in a range that makes Roy’s navel twist with anticipation. “I think you and I have pretty similar tastes, kid.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Between Cheshire and Grayson, I’d say so, yes,” Slade replies around a smirk, and Roy feels a dash of mortification at the reminder that he and Slade share more than just one conquest. He’s sure it’s spelled out is the blush that flares up his neck. 

He’s almost grateful when Slade straightens, pulling that leg back with him. _Almost._

“Are we going to compare notes, or are we going to move along? Because I’ve got a bike outside, and the night’s wasting.” 

It has to be the worst idea Roy’s had in a while, and considering his track record, that’s a pretty high threshold. He’s got plenty of hindsight to give him a good grasp on what counts as decent these days. 

All of that goes out the window when Roy nods and pushes to his feet, falling into step behind the taller man. It earns him a smile that does stupid, reckless thing to Roy’s nerves, and he tries to smooth them down between the booth and the door Slade holds open for him. Like he’s some sweet southern gentleman. 

There’s absolutely nothing gentlemanly about the way he slams Roy up against the brick the instant they step into the alley. For a half-second, Roy wonders if this has all been some grand ploy to lure him to a discreet location where he can be dispatched with efficiently. 

The thought is shoved from his head when Slade’s lips crash into his, aggressive and forceful, with a pressure that blinds Roy. He gasps, and Slade takes the opportunity to press deeper, claim him in a manner that’s distinctly possessive. Huge palms smother over his hips, pinning him back against the brick when Roy tries to rut, a whine ringing up his throat. 

He finds his fingers curled around Slade’s belt, yanking him flush against Roy’s frame so he can nudge one of those thighs back between Roy’s legs. Slade breaks off his lips after a minute of biting down his breaths, and Roy tips his head back against the coarse mortar to suck in a lungful of air and centre himself. 

Slade’s lips don’t hesitate to kiss the soft skin beneath his chin, nipping down the ridges of his windpipe as Roy shivers in the late October air. “How’s this going to go, kid?” 

Roy blinks, coherent thought wrestled from him when Slade grinds the thick of his thigh up against Roy’s hard-on. He groans, sinking into the bruising grip on his hips that holds him upright. “Depends what you’re into.” 

“Not much I’m not into,” Slade growls back, lips returning to swallow down Roy’s moans. When Slade pulls off again, Roy takes a moment to blink back stars, replacing them with the open night sky above them. 

“Sure,” Roy concedes, breathless around a smile, “but did you ever let Jade peg you?” 

“So you do bottom,” Slade says with vague interest. “Good to know.” 

Roy pauses, swimming in the sensation of Slade’s teeth scraping up the length of his jaw. “Wait, was that an option?” 

Slade just laughs, and jerks him upright, off the coarse brick, to spin him around in the alley. Roy stumbles with the momentum, corralled across the short space, and feels cold metal press up against his calves through his jeans. When he glances back, he recognises it as a motorcycle, sleek and chrome, with polished black leather. 

Whichever part of his brain isn’t swamped with the headiness of Slade vaguely recalls mention of a bike, but it’s overruled when Slade’s teeth return to his neck, chasing Roy’s vibrating whimpers up the flesh. It’s overwhelming, a sensory overload as Slade’s hands wander over him with harsh purpose. Roy sinks his nails into the leather of Slade’s belt and clings to the anchor. 

Slade breaks off sucking hickeys into his skin long enough to meet his gaze. 

“Sit,” Slade orders, nodding at the motorcycle behind him. 

“What?” 

Slade lifts him, and the vertigo seizes Roy for a moment, pulling a protest from his lips that Slade smothers with his own. Then he’s being shoved back against leather, his spine scraping the coarse grit of brick when Slade’s huge palms shove his shirt up a few inches. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Roy curses, caving around the whip of cold air as gooseflesh ripples up his exposed skin. “It’s freezing here.” 

Slade just hums, unperturbed, and lowers his mouth back down. Roy concedes, privately, that maybe there’s some perks to being a super-serum military experiment walking. 

Those lips trace his collarbones, the barest scrape of teeth present to have Roy’s inebriated veins singing. He winds his arms around Slade’s shoulders, tilting his head back against the brick when those lips jump down to press into his abdomen. 

“Are you always,” Roy asks, and swallows back a gasp when Slade’s tongue dips into his navel, “such a sweetheart prom date when it comes to sex?” 

That earns him a displeased hum, but Roy doesn’t have time to grin before those fingers fall to his belt, yanking the buckle open with a ruthless efficiency that has Roy’s lips parting around a gasp. 

The force behind those movements is something else, is a blinding reminder that he’s pinned against _Deathstroke,_ in a back alley in Kentucky, about to have his brains banged firmly out of his skull. Roy grins when that hand shifts to palm his trapped cock, grunting as he ruts up into the touch. 

“Eager now, aren’t you? Sure you’re not going to come in your pants, kid?” 

Roy’s features descend into a glare. “Sure you can get it up, old geezer?” 

In response, Slade just pushes up onto the balls of his feet, smothering Roy against the brick and pressing his very obvious length into Roy’s crotch. It says something that Roy’s a little intimidated by the size of it, easily a few inches on his own cock, and maybe half as thick again. 

Roy swallows and lets his mouth fall open, and Slade takes the invitation for what it is, claiming his lips with tongue and teeth. It’s more intoxicating than the whiskey, heats his veins faster than alcohol ever could, and Roy’s head spinning with it when Slade pulls back to bracket his windpipe with sharp teeth. 

“D-” Roy grunts, and bites down on the word like his life very well depends on it. He still feels Slade smirk against his throat, mouthing at the jumping line of his pulse until it’s wet and bruised, before he lifts his gaze to hold Roy’s gaze. 

“What was that gonna be, kid?” he murmurs, lips brushing Roy’s, and he _hates_ what that does to his self-control. He grips the seat of the bike, glaring as his nails bite into the leather to regain some sort of distance between them. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he tries, and Slade cuts him off with a bark of laughter. 

One infuriating white eyebrow lifts. “You’re welcome to call me Daddy if you want to, kid. I won’t take it to heart.” 

Roy can feel how his cheeks are burning, can imagine how the red burns out his smattering of freckles. “Deathstroke,” he says firmly. “I was gonna say Deathstroke.” 

Slade breathes hot against his jawline, that ice blue eye flickering down between them. “Sure you were, kid. Offer still stands though.” 

“What _offer?_ ” Roy demands, floundering for any sort of control over this mortifying interaction. 

“The offer to fill the sorely lacking role of a father figure in your life.” 

Roy swings at him, more out of instinct and sharp rage than any real sensibility. He’s not all that surprised when Slade snatches his fist out of the cold air, larger fingers wrapping hard over his knuckles to twist his arm back up against the brick. 

The other is lashing out to grasp his free wrist before Roy can squirm free, pulling it down to join the first, both forearms squeezed tight in one of Slade’s large hands in the small of Roy’s back. 

Slade exhales, breath hot against Roy’s cheek when his unencumbered fingers slip down to wind into his long hair. Yank his head back until his throat is open to those dangerous teeth. It makes a shudder ripple down Roy’s spine, arching against Slade’s midsection. 

The larger man smirks, pushing his sweatshirt up to his bitten collarbones. “Let’s try that again, one more time. See if we can’t train some manners into you.” 

“I could still,” Roy mutters, and has to regain his train of thought when that huge hand releases his hair to tweak a nipple with irritating accuracy. He arches into the touch with a bitten off groan, forearms flexing in their hold. “I could still knee you in the balls, jackass.” 

“And I could still bend you over my knee until that ass matches your hair,” Slade reminds him, and Roy’s knees feel weak. Slade smirks, hand slipping down to palm him in his pants until his legs fall open, heat pooling in the base of his spine. 

“Promises, promises,” Roy gasps, and yelps when teeth clamp down on his nipple. 

“We could spend all night going back and forth like this,” Slade murmurs, barely more than a growl against the side of Roy’s neck. That gaze is a palpable force, dragging down Roy’s exposed skin. “But I want to hear what you sound like when you’re incoherent.” 

“Big ask,” Roy grunts out, and gets a reprimanding squeeze around his forearms that grinds the bones together. He makes a determined effort to shut his mouth. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, kid. And stop me if you’ve heard this one before.” 

That hand releases him, joining the other to yank Roy’s jeans down his thighs with a force that rocks the bike on its kickstand and makes Roy’s heart jump into his throat. 

Slade doesn’t seem the slightest bit fazed as he divests Roy of the material. “I’m going to eat you out until you’re begging for me to fuck that tight ass of yours. Or until you forget your own name. Whichever comes first. Then, if you decide to behave, I’ll bend you over this bike and give you what you’re asking for.” 

“Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out,” Roy wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut to control the heat oozing through his veins. Bites back a whimper when Slade slips to his knees on the pavement and hitches Roy’s legs over his shoulders. 

It makes him feel exposed, makes the cold lick at his bare skin to rival the way all of him _burns_ with the need for Slade to touch him. It’s unnerving, to have that smirk between his thighs, that wicked mouth and tongue somewhere so intimate, and all Roy can do is sink his nails deeper into the leather seat and hold on for dear life. 

Slade leans forward, nose scraping the soft skin of Roy’s inner thigh as he kisses down to the joint of leg and groin. Roy fights down a shudder and the resulting whimper. 

“If you decide you want more,” Slade floats, and presses an obnoxiously tender kiss to Roy’s perineum. His knees jolt, bracketing Slade’s temples briefly as the whole of him jerks with anticipation. “I can always find something to plug you up for the ride back to my place.” 

Roy keens, hands slipping down to thread into Slade’s hair, and that’s all the concession the man needs to press forward and press soft lips to Roy’s rim. He alternates between sucking and nipping, drawing all that heat down into Roy’s stiffening cock until his thighs are trembling with the promise all that teasing has to offer. 

“Slade, Jesus,” he breathes, and loses track when Slade licks at him, tongue delving just past that ring of muscle before retracting. “ _Fuck._ ” 

The hum of approval between his legs is halfway to a laugh, and those two hands lift to ease his legs wider, thumbs working a bruise into the muscle as Roy’s held open around Slade’s slick tongue. For all the larger man is on his knees, Roy feels distinctly at a disadvantage, robbed of control and leverage, at the mercenary’s mercy as he fucks deeper into him. 

It’s all Roy can do not to squirm on the leather seat, not to yank the hair from Slade’s head with the force of his focus. Slade definitely knows his way around, and it’s not long before a thumb is tugging at his rim as well, easing in alongside that wet muscle. 

It’s not as full as Roy’s used to, but the sensation is definitely a welcome one, made all the more prominent by how Slade readjusts his knees on the mercenary’s shoulders. Reminds him exactly how much Slade controls the position here. 

Roy arches, spine bowing in an effort to draw the man deeper, and he sighs when Slade acquiesces. As much as he wishes he had a quip on hand right now, he can’t summon enough coherency to string together a sentence when Slade is fucking him open on his tongue, drawing louder and louder whines from Roy’s throat. 

It’s not until Slade hums a note of approval against his rim that Roy realises he’s babbling, something half-recognisable and sounding vaguely of “Daddy” as Slade switches his thumb out for a finger and thrusts into Roy with purpose. His other hand lifts after a moment, skimming past his balls to wrap around his cock and give him a firm stroke that yanks the air from Roy’s lungs. 

It also draws Roy’s attention to the fact that he’s leaking precum all over his bared stomach, the skin slick beneath the dark, full head of his cock. The way Slade handles him is rough and purposeful, geared for efficiency, and it makes Roy’s knees clamp down on the man’s temples as he bends and bows, a shout building in his throat. 

Slade changes angle, driving that solitary finger into him with more purpose, and if Roy was more of a bastard, he’d be kicking himself over _only one finger, Harper, really?_ But then Slade finds what he’s aiming for, and all of Roy is yanked towards the slick slide of that finger and that tongue, the calloused grip sliding up his cock, and it’s too much. 

He shouts, louder and longer than he’d dare admit, shuddering and shaking through the climax as Slade milks him, strokes him until Roy’s coated in his own spend. Veins tingling as all the blood shoots back through him, leaving him shivering in the cold alley. 

Eventually, gently, Slade withdraws, slipping that finger from him too and unwinding his grip from Roy’s cock. The archer leans back against the brick and sucks in a few rattling breaths, gulping down air like he’s drowning. Grateful for the fact that his legs are still hooked over Slade’s shoulders, for how much they would be trembling under his weight otherwise. 

Warm, broad thumbs massage into Roy’s inner thighs, coaxing him back to reality as Roy’s breathing settles. A flush rises and dissipates on his cheeks as Roy glances down to meet that blue eye where Slade kneels between his legs, ever patient. 

No words come to the tip of Roy’s tongue, but it’s still flooded with embarrassment when Slade arches a smug brow and murmurs, “Speechless? That’s a first.” 

“Fuck you,” he mumbles, and does his best to ignore Slade’s laughter as he rises to his feet. 

“Eloquent,” the mercenary purrs, and reaches around Roy to tug a helmet off the handlebars. Roy tests his legs in the interim, whimpering when they shake at even the prospect of standing. 

“Thought CIA experiments didn’t need helmets to survive a motorcycle crash,” he manages to string together, and is half proud of it. 

“Military,” Slade corrects, and fishes into his back pocket for his keys. “And the helmet’s for you.” 

“For me?” Roy asks, brow furrowing. He still feels like he’s been spun in twelve different directions, slowly collecting the pieces of his rational mind that he still has a grip on. 

Slade snorts, and Roy hates how unaffected he is. Rues how unfair it all is. “If you manage to pull your pants up and get that helmet on, I’ll take you someone warmer where I can fuck you properly and thoroughly.” 

Roy blushes, but reaches down to tug his jeans up where they’re pooled around his ankles, wrestling the material back up over his hips. He pauses at the mess on his stomach, but considering there’s nothing in the alley he can remedy the situation with, he settles for just tugging his sweatshirt down over the mess. Hopes Slade has some sort of laundry at this place of his. 

“Sounds like a bad idea,” Roy says, but pulls the helmet on anyway, buckling it tight under his chin. 

Slade winds a hand over the handlebar and smirks down at him, stoking the embers that are just beginning to settle in Roy’s gut. “Only one way to find out.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
